


Time Will Tell

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Pining Sam, Sibling Incest, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: Sam's been feeling things and Dean thinks he's got his little brother all figured out. It's not really as simple as it seems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My little gift for [locknkey](http://locknkey.livejournal.com/) for the spn_j2_xmas challenge on LJ! I can only hope I churned out something that brightens your holidays, even a little.

To Sam, Dean will always be associated with the smell of rain. 

Not the humid white-wine haze that slides across his skin after a sun shower, or the fine misting that catches the angles of Sam's face that he didn't even know he had. 

No, Dean is a torrential downpour, a thicket of water that drills hard and fast against pavement and roofs and sleek black metal. Dean is that fresh, cool bite to the nose when Sam cracks the window to try to breathe in something other than the inside of the car and his brother, only to be buffeted by pellets against his cheek that remind him a little too much of the blows to his heart that he gets whenever Dean shoots him a crooked grin. 

Sam doesn't know where this association started, or how. Just that whenever a thunderstorm rolls in, a slate grey promise threaded with ozone, Sam always finds his eyes on his brother. Even for days after the storm has passed, the smell of raindrops still clings to Dean, an edge of purity to the grave dirt creases lining the curve of his throat. 

Maybe these thoughts aren't exactly on the right side of normal for one to have about their own flesh and blood, but Sam can't exactly find it in himself to care how tight his skin feels across his bones every time Dean's hand closes around the back of his neck. It’s just his reality. 

A reality that doesn’t really make sense, like some kind of invisible force is stopping Sam from understanding it. It’s as if he’s constantly trying to force two like magnets together, his thoughts and feelings unable to ever fully connect because of the unseen barrier, always leaving him without a definite sense of _oh, that’s what this is_. 

So for now, he takes it in stride, tries to breathe through the snakes of electricity slipping through his veins when Dean loops his arm across Sam’s shoulders and drags them both into an abandoned booth in their latest bar haunt. The wood of the table is stained with incomplete water rings from many a glass of beer that had been forgotten for too long. Sam uses a blunt nail to trace one in particular, chewing at the corner of his mouth as he follows the curve to the end of its path, just one unfinished inch away from joining with its other half. Sam somberly relates to the faded stain before a familiar hand enters his vision to slam a shot glass full of something Sam strongly suspects is tequila right in front of him.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard, Sammy. Could hear you from clear across the bar.” 

Sam snorts and moves his finger to the small pool of liquor that had slopped over the lip of the glass, dipping the tip of his index into it just for something to do. The cut on the tip of his finger stings when it makes contact with the alcohol. Sam ignores it. 

“You know what you need?” Dean states in a very matter-of-fact tone as he tosses back a shot of his own, his other arm splaying out casually along the top of his seat. He isn’t looking at Sam even though he’s clearly speaking only to him, Dean’s languid gaze turned away to track the other bar patrons bustling past their booth on their way to the pool tables or the old jukebox in the far corner that is spitting out more static than music. Always on the look-out. “To get laid. We need to find you a girl that’s gonna work alllll that angst right outta you.”

Sam shakes his head and just barely refrains from rolling his eyes, because God knows if he does it now, then they’re gonna fall right out of his head. Using his knuckles, he nudges the tequila shot back towards his brother, a grimace tugging down the corners of his mouth.

“Not in the mood tonight, Dean.” Sam’s eyes flick from the liquor to his brother. “For either of those things.”

“C’mon, Sammy!” Dean rolls his neck, his head swinging to his other shoulder so he can fully look at Sam this time, all exasperated and put upon by his straight-edge baby brother. “Live a little! It’s been two _months_ since Sarah, man. You can’t still be hung up on her.”

Dean’s low blow slams into the wrong chord in Sam’s chest, his fingers trembling from the impact as his body jerks him up and out of his seat with jacket in hand before Dean can say another word. Because it isn’t as simple as that. It just isn’t anymore. Not for him, not now that he can’t find the words to explain why he’s been watching the way Dean moves more closely than ever before.

“Sam _my_ ,” Dean whines, his tone dropping low at the end in that pitiful way it always does when things don't go his way. Sam doesn’t need to look up from where he’s staring at his boots as he shrugs on his jacket to know that the accompanying pout is already growing on his brother’s face. 

“I’ll see you back at the motel, Dean.”

Then there is heat, five fingers curling around the worn collar of Sam’s shirt to stop him mid-spin as he tries to turn to the front door. It’s Dean, half standing out of the booth, the question in his eyes hidden by the shadows in the bar. Sam didn’t know his lungs could get this tight, but they’ve folded in on themselves like a house of cards. He can’t breathe because Dean is _right there_ , oblivious and concerned and a hundred other things that Sam wishes he wasn’t. 

“Sam, listen‒”

“Really.” Sam forces out a smile, thin and stretched like the muscles in his heart, and tugs at Dean’s sleeve to loosen his hold. “I’m just not in the mood.” 

Dean’s eyebrows knit together, a vertical line dimpling the skin of his forehead, and Sam wants to touch it, press the pad of his thumb there and smooth it away. Instead, he slips out of Dean’s grasp and claps his hand on the top of Dean’s arm to let him know he’s not all that mad before moving away. Using his shoulder to shove the door open, Sam steps out into the night, the bitter wind picking up harshly enough to blow his bangs into his eyes. 

It’s a new moon, which means he can’t see the details of the sky above his head, but the scent of rain in the air is unmistakeable. Sam lets his eyelids drift shut and feels inexplicably alone.

-

They’re on an abandoned off-road just north of Clearwater, Nebraska when the Impala’s radio goes on the fritz. Something spits and hisses at them like an angry cat from the tape deck before the music warbles to an early end, making Dean swear heavier than he did the last time he got shot.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” It’s a growl accompanied by the jab of Dean’s fingers to the unresponsive console, as if his aggressive pokes and prods are going to magically fix the problem.

“There’s nothing you can do, man.” Sam swats at Dean’s hand only to have his own knocked away with an extra large helping of Dean’s death glare, hold the pickles. “Maybe if you would update the console to something from this century, then shit like this wouldn’t happen. Just calm down.”

“Calm down?” Dean repeats it all slow and condescending, like he’s trying to emphasize just how offensive these words are to him. “Calm _down_?” 

Are they really gonna do this right now? “Christ.” Sam nudges his right shoulder into the space between his seat and the door before crossing his arms, his forehead knocking against the glass as he settles in. “Forget it.”

“You’re damn right I’m gonna forget it,” Dean snaps back, and not for the first time is Sam compelled to reach across the worn vinyl and make Dean eat his knuckles. “ _Calm down_.” He’s mumbling Sam’s blasphemous phrase under his breath now, lips barely moving as he goes back to petting uselessly at the dashboard. “Don’t listen to him, baby. I’d never do that to you.”

Sam shakes his head to himself and closes his eyes. It’s just their luck that they had only recently found out that they (read: Sam) had taken their toolbox out of the Impala last time they were at Bobby’s and forgotten to reload it before they set off on their next hunt, a fact Dean has reamed him out for on multiple occasions since then. At least he can pretend to nap to avoid the dirty looks he’s gonna get for the next hour and a half it takes for them to find some semblance of civilization to point them to the nearest auto shop. 

Except that he can’t, because Dean can’t go for ten fucking minutes without some sort of noise to distract him from himself, so now he’s got an earful of “Sam, Sam, _Sam_ , Sammy, Samantha, c’mon, wake up, _Saaaaaaam_ ,” and he should probably be alarmed at how appealing the idea of fratricide is looking right about now.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re fucking obnoxious?” Sam finally breaks his pretend-nap cover to shove Dean’s hand away from where it’s pulling at Sam’s earlobe. “Because you are. Obnoxious.”

“Awww, poor pretty princess didn’t get enough beauty sleep?”

“How am I supposed to when you don’t shut up for more than three seconds? You’re like a toddler.”

Dean clasps a hand over his heart. “Sammy. You wound me.”

“Would you cut it out? It’s not my job to entertain you because your car is falling apart.”

“Wrong.” Dean holds up his finger and gives Sam a look, eyebrows arching up high and expressive to match that spark in his eye. His hair isn’t styled today, instead laying down soft and fluffy on his head, still slightly damp from his morning shower. “It’s _always_ your job to entertain me. And my car isn’t falling apart, jackass.” Dean snaps his fingers decisively before switching hands on the wheel, using his right wrist to keep the car steady as he props his cheek against his other fist, elbow resting on the car door. “It was probably that guy in the shop back in Cincinnati. What was his name?”

“Steve.”

“Steve. Man, never trust a guy named _Steve_ to change your oil.”

Sam finally turns to his brother to level him with the best bitch face he can muster while being this strung out and irritated. “You’re saying he purposely mangled your car, what, for shits and giggles?”

Dean shrugs as he tilts his head towards Sam, the sun catching the straight line of his nose and the curve of his cheekbone. “Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, Sammy. Thought you were supposed to be the smart one here.”

Something rises up unbidden between Sam’s ribs, twisting high and hot until it pools at the base of his throat and stops his next words from leaving his tongue. He stares at Dean as he tries to understand the feeling, assuming at first that it’s the usual overwhelming wave of frustration that Dean never fails to drag out of him. They always do this, play this game of pushing each other’s buttons until one finally breaks and they get into an all-out fight that ends in slamming doors and petty insults tossed over diner tables. It’s not uncommon for punches to be thrown. But as Sam’s eyes skip over his brother’s face, softened by the all-knowing smirk that’s pulling at his lips and the wrinkles fanning out from the corners of Dean's eyes, he realizes that the feeling is affection, but darker, redder, suffocating him with the rawness of it all. 

Whatever this is, it’s too much, too strong, threatening to choke off his air and leave him gasping for something he isn’t ready to voice out loud, let alone to himself. Sam forces his head back to his window and furiously cranks it open until fresh air is tampering the heat back down behind his lungs. It doesn’t even make sense. Dean hadn’t even done anything besides grate Sam’s nerves like he has since the dawn of time, but somehow Sam is still breathless and panting with his face halfway shoved into the brutal rush of wind outside the car. It’s terrifying.

Ignorance is bliss, Sam supposes, because Dean is carrying on like he didn’t notice a thing by the time Sam gathers himself enough to sit back in his seat. He brings his awareness to the present just in time to catch the tail-end of Dean’s latest ramble, “‒the deal is?”, which leaves Sam blinking dumbly as he tries to piece everything together.

“What deal?” 

“ _Your_ deal, Sam.”

“My deal? I don’t have a deal. What’s _your_ deal?”

Dean keeps his eyes on the road as he gets a handful of Sam’s shoulder and unceremoniously shoves him into his door. “Stop twisting this shit around on me. You’ve had a deal lately, Sam, so c’mon. What is it? Fess up. Do that talking thing you always love to do. Spill your guts. I’m giving you one free pass for a chick-flick moment. Go.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about, man?” Sam’s voice hikes up at the end, panic seeping into his muscles until they ache with how tense they are, and he hopes like hell that Dean didn’t hear it. 

No dice. Dean’s forehead is wrinkling again as he stares at Sam, his fingers tapping a toneless rhythm against the steering wheel. Then his eyes widen almost comically, large spheres of white with those dark hoops of green and black that never leave Sam’s face as his mouth drops open in an exaggerated gasp.

“Dude. Are you _gay_?”

It’s a good thing that Sam isn’t drinking anything at this exact moment, because him choking on his own spit and air is bad enough. Through his hacking coughs, Sam rasps out, “Dean, what the _fuck_?” as he tries to calm his lungs into submission from where they’re trying to climb out of his throat.

“You’re totally gay!” Dean’s _grinning_ , the asshole, leaning back in his seat with a suffocating air of smugness. 

“Did you snort some of the Vicodin this morning? Huff any paint fumes recently?”

“Sam, shut up.”

“No, really. Whatever drugs you’re on, they must be really fucking good. Because I know you did not just ask me if I was gay.”

“Listen!” And, God, Sam would do just about anything to punch that look right off his brother’s face if it didn’t mean they’d end up in a ditch. “You’re never _in the mood_ ‒” Here, Dean intones some sort of whiny, mopey voice Sam can only assume is Dean’s impression of him, “‒to even try to hook up with girls anymore. I mean, Sarah was practically throwing herself into your lap and I had to drag your ass out so you’d go and see her again. Process of elimination. If it isn’t girls, it’s gotta be guys!”

Dean looks so triumphant with his revelation that it almost makes Sam feel bad for bursting his bubble. Almost. 

“So, because I don’t feel like leaving a trail of one night stands across the country, that automatically means I’m gay?” Sam resigns himself to slumping against his door, arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Your logic’s a little shaky here, dude.”

“You haven’t denied it,” Dean reasons with arched brows.

“I’m _not_ gay,” Sam shoots back vehemently.

“The man doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Okay, one, since when do you quote Shakespeare?” Sam shoves a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the strands to try to distract himself from the nervous spikes that have begun to zip up and down his spine. “Two, you _just_ said‒”

Dean interrupts him by reaching over and patting his knee, a solemn expression shuttering down over his once-gleeful demeanor. “It must be hard for you.”

“W-What?” Sam squints at Dean quizzically. His brother is jumping tracks so suddenly that he’s getting whiplash and his head is spinning from trying to keep up.

“It must be hard for you,” Dean repeats, giving Sam’s leg another pat. “Having me around all the time with your big, gay feelings.”

Dean has gone insane. It’s the only explanation. He’s finally had one too many poltergeists slam his head off a wall and it’s knocked something loose upstairs. Or a witch has cursed him and Sam failed to notice until now. Because truly, _truly_ , there is no other reason for Dean saying what he just said. 

Unfortunately, while Sam was whirling around in his head drawing these conclusions and inadvertently gaping at Dean whilst he did so, Dean had taken his silence and stricken face to mean that he was right and is now smiling big enough to rival the Cheshire Cat.

“Dude! You’re totally gay for me!” Dean crows, slapping his palms against the steering wheel as a full-bodied laugh forces him to bend forward over the dash. 

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam finally sputters out as his grasp on the English language reboots and allows words to fall out of his mouth. “You’re on a whole new level of fucked up if you honestly think that I’m gay, let alone gay for _you_.”

“Sammy. C’mon. Look at me.” Dean sprawls himself out as best he can with his foot still on the gas and one hand on the wheel, attempting to look desirable, Sam supposes, but in all honesty, he’s coming off as more of a leather-clad ragdoll flung haphazardly into the driver’s seat. 

“And what is it exactly that I’m supposed to be seeing?” Sam asks dryly, schooling his face into a neutral expression as his eyes scan down the flat plane of Dean’s stomach hidden by a wrinkled grey shirt, the swell of Dean’s thighs covered by faded denim and the long arm stretching across the back of the seat where Dean is casually walking two of his fingers towards Sam in a playful, slinky manner. He isn’t focusing on the curve of Dean’s bicep or the way the afternoon sun is catching the hollow of Dean’s throat. He isn’t. 

Dean frowns. “Don’t play dumb, Sam. Doesn’t suit you.”

“You acting completely out of your mind doesn’t suit you either. I’m not gay. Sorry to ruin your case there, Holmes.”

“My good Watson,” Dean says meaningfully as he sits back up in his seat. “This case is not closed. It seems that I’m just gonna have to show you.”

Sam stares at his brother. “ _Show_ me? Show me what?”

“That you’re gay. You’re obviously in denial. Aren’t there four stages of that or something?”

“That’s grief, dumbass. And it’s five stages, you know that. Denial is one of them.”

Dean waves him away. “Same thing.”

“Is not.”

“Point is,” Dean cuts him off, that infuriating smirk growing wider once more. “It’s clearly up to me now to show you the light.”

Sam tries to swallow but his throat is too tight. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m doing this for _you_ , Sammy. You should be thanking me.”

What Sam believes he should be doing is wrapping his hands around Dean’s neck and not letting go until he’s a whole new shade of blue. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Sam mutters, opting to cross his arms and press so hard against his door that his shoulder starts to go numb. He cannot believe this is fucking happening. 

All Dean does in response is cheerily start to whistle “Bohemian Rhapsody” while his fingers tap along, clearly marking the end of their royally screwed up conversation. 

For the next seventy-three miles before they finally pull into a town that can barely be called civilization, Sam’s eyes are closed, but he isn’t sleeping. 

For the first half of the drive, he imagines all the different ways he could kill his brother in his sleep. For the second half of the drive, he sits in the pool of ice that has spread from his gut into every inch of his body and tries to convince himself that there’s no way Dean is right. 

He’s not sure what it says about him that by the time they roll through the nearest fast food driveway and are pulling into a motel, he hasn’t found any valid reasons on how Dean could be wrong.

-

Sam mistakenly believed that Dean had dropped this ridiculous notion when he didn’t bring it up for a while. He had remained tense and wary, braced for the onslaught of uncomfortable questions that his brother undoubtedly had, but there was nothing. Not a single peep from Dean, who had seemed to fall back into his usual self, complaining about gas prices and how his bacon was too crispy to be edible and that if Sam leaves the cap off the toothpaste one more time, he’ll be goddamn sorry. It allowed Sam to relax, to think that Dean had gotten the hint and laid off, finally taking Sam’s comfort level into account instead of prying like the asshole he is.

It’s two days later that Sam is proven wrong. And really, he should have known better. Sam knows his brother inside and out, backwards, forwards, upside down and just about every which way to Sunday. It’s not like it comes as a surprise, but Sam will accept that he had held onto blind hope that Dean would fuck off, just this once. Just this once.

They’re somewhere in southern Iowa when Dean ruins Sam’s week. A bar called Stony Mountain, which Sam assumes is meant to be ironic, since they haven’t seen anything other than boring, flat plains on their entire drive thus far. He doesn’t know why he allowed Dean to convince him to go out. Something about the ache in his bones from digging up the grave that Dean had shafted him with last night had convinced him that Dean buying the next three rounds of drinks might just make up for it. 

He should’ve stayed in the goddamn motel.

The bar is dim, filled with a pale orange light that casts a strange glow on the faces of the patrons lining its booths and bar stools. The smell of dirt and dried sweat fills Sam’s nostrils when he pushes the door open to step through, the heat of his brother’s body warming his left side like always, ever-present. Sam spares a thought, thinks maybe he shouldn’t be so used to this, that it feels weirder when Dean isn’t close enough for Sam to feel his body heat. Spares another, decides he doesn’t care. 

The first round goes down like scalding fire, the second like a promise. By the third and fourth, Sam is loose-limbed and smiling, and by the fifth, he’s leaning into the wall on his side of the booth for support after Dean cracks the lamest joke Sam has ever heard in his life. 

Should have figured it out, should have caught on, but the jukebox is pouring out tunes that have been woven into Sam’s muscles as a kid lounging in the backseat of his father’s car, and Dean keeps smiling that smile, the one that double-skips Sam’s heart and pulls the corners of his mouth up in response, just as it always has, always will. He is pliant, happy, sated. Drunk. Content with a bottle of Sam Adams in his hand, even despite Dean’s warnings of mixing hard liquor and beer, “C’mon, Sammy, thought I taught you better than that”, “Fuck yourself, Dean”, that’ll show ‘im. 

Should have known when Dean slides out of his side of the booth and into Sam’s that something is up. Stupid, stupid drunk Sam, too trusting and too vulnerable to the arm around his neck, the fingers skimming the front of his chest.

“What about that one?” Dean asks, too close to Sam’s ear, and Sam’s eyes are vibrating when they lift to find his brother’s face. Dean isn’t even looking at him, which annoys Sam. Dean’s eyes should always be on him. Sam frowns.

“That what?” Sam says intelligently. Dean grins, his teeth catching the eerie light to somehow make his smile even more beautiful. Not fair. Sam’s eyes narrow. That’s not fair.

“That one,” Dean repeats, nodding his head somewhere near the bar. Stupid Dean, thinking that Sam would want to look anywhere other than him.

“That what?” Sam repeats, still refusing to drag his gaze away from his brother. Why would he when he still hasn’t finished counting all the freckles on Dean’s cheeks? It’s an endeavor he started back in third grade, and to this day, has not been able to complete. Dean always used to make fun of Sam when he stared too long, even though he never knew the reason why. Would grab the back of his head and shove it down, or scoff and turn away, ever elusive. That’s Dean in a nutshell: elusive, just out of reach, yet always by Sam’s side, taunting.

“Idiot,” Sam hears, right before Dean’s fingers are on his chin, turning his face towards the bar. It takes a moment for Sam’s eyes to focus, but eventually the shapes become clear. The bartender, grey-haired and bearded, leaning forward to slide a drink and a napkin to a customer. The customer, dark haired, full lipped, and eyeing everyone else in the bar nervously, fingers skittish on the glass. Male. A guy.

Dean’s words finally sink in.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, man?” Sam slurs out, jerking his chin out of Dean’s hand so hard that the back of his head knocks off the wall to his right. “Are you serious right now, Dean? I thought you fuckin’ let this go.”

“Sammy,” Dean scolds, looking absolutely too calm in the face of the anger now seething its way to the surface of Sam’s skin. “I’m just tryin’ to help you out here!”

“Fuck off,” Sam spits, shoving Dean away from him. “I’m serious, get the fuck away from me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean hisses, grappling with the sticky table to keep his balance and not fall out of the seat. Sam has just turned back to wrap both hands around his beer bottle in order to not strangle his brother when Dean speaks again. “C’mon, Sam. Why are you gettin’ so mad if there’s no truth to it, huh?”

A chill blankets Sam’s heart, crackling ice with too-sharp edges that cut the soft insides of the muscles between his ribs. His head’s too fuzzy to conjure up an appropriate and snarky reply, so he settles for downing the rest of his drink and slamming the empty glass on the tabletop. 

“Get me another one.”

Dean lets out a slow whistle, eyebrows hiked high up on his forehead. “Oooookay then.”

Sam would probably be knuckle-deep in Dean’s face if he hadn’t stood up to walk over to the bar.

The bar’s not too busy. It has just enough people in it to keep a low buzz of conversation in the background, mostly older men getting a drink or two before heading home for the night. So it really shouldn’t take Dean more than a minute or two to get Sam’s beer, and yet by the time Sam thinks to check his watch instead of staring angrily at the wall, he finds it’s been over five. He finds out exactly why when he looks towards the bar and finds Dean sitting on a stool, talking to the guy he’d pointed out to Sam earlier.

“Motherf—” Sam doesn’t even finish his sentence before he’s out of the booth and striding over to his brother with murder in his eyes.

“Sammy!” Dean says brightly once Sam’s within hearing range. “I was just telling Matt here how—”

“—We’re leaving.” Sam interrupts.

Matt, poor guy, shrinks into himself, looking flustered and confused. “Is-Is that a question or…?”

Sam levels his glare with the stranger sitting next to his brother, and that shuts him up real quick. “We’re leaving,” Sam repeats slowly, moving his gaze back to Dean. “ _Now_.”

Dean has enough arrogance to look surprised. “But—”

Without another word, Sam fists his hand in the back of Dean’s jacket and hauls him to his feet, resulting in Matt’s drink getting spilled and Dean’s stool getting knocked over from Dean’s flailing arms and feet.

“Goddammit, If you don’t put me the _fuck down_ —”

“Get in the fucking car, Dean.” Sam shoves Dean forward, hard enough that he stumbles before finding his footing again. Dean whirls around, hands clenched tight as his sides and rage spilling red spots onto his cheeks, but he must see the look on Sam’s face, the one that says he is absolutely not fucking around here, because he merely spits out a few swear words and pushes his way out to the parking lot. 

Sam turns back to Matt, his inner sense of decency appealing to him even in his current state of wanting to beat the shit out of his older brother. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what he said or anything, but… I’m sorry. We just have to go.”

Matt nods stiffly, not meeting Sam’s eyes as he wipes up the spilled drink in front of him. That’s about as much as Sam can take in the bar that is suddenly suffocating, so he turns on his heel and follows his brother’s footsteps like always.

He finds Dean leaning against the hood of the car, arms and legs crossed.

“Y’know, Sammy, if you had just given me another minute—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Sam cuts in, his palms aching from how hard his nails are biting into his skin. “You’re going to regret it. Swear to God, Dean.” 

Dean blows a raspberry and rolls his eyes at the same time, which gives Sam just enough time to step forward and slam his hands into Dean’s chest, nearly knocking him over. Dean scrambles to recover, standing up just as Sam moves to shove him again. The anger seething under Sam’s skin is taking over, pushing his body without his permission, but at the same time, he doesn’t care. Dean’s been asking for it, doing the shit he’s done, so fuck it, fuck Dean, he deserves a sucker punch or two.

“Man, get the fuck _off_ me!” Dean shouts, smacking Sam’s arms away to retaliate with a shove of his own, making Sam stumble backwards. He’s definitely drunker than he realized, but that’s not gonna stop him from fucking Dean up for being a dickhead.

“Can’t you ever just fuckin’ leave it alone, Dean?” Sam explodes, arms cast wide. “Why do you have to push and push and _push_ , like, what, you think you’re gonna fuckin’ combust if you don’t pry until someone loses their mind? That what it is? Christ!”

“You’re such a fuckin’ drama queen, Sam,” Dean shoots back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“What don’t you get about the phrase ‘let it go’? What part of that is so hard for you to understand?” 

Dean starts to scoff, but Sam steps forward, jabbing his pointer finger hard into Dean’s collarbone. “No! No, I really wanna know. What’s the deal, man?”

“Sam,” Dean says. His voice is low and angry, and Sam knows that this is his warning, but he ignores it, because fuck Dean. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says back, his voice going high and mocking and, yeah, that was immature and _such_ a stupid little brother thing to do and he’s gonna regret it in the morning, but whatever, okay? Whatever.

Every muscle in Sam’s body is ready for a fight. Adrenaline has been coursing through him since he went over to where Matt and Dean were sitting, and he wants Dean to swing. He _really_ wants Dean to swing. Instead, Dean lets out a sigh, shakes his head, and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I’m headin’ back to the motel. You let me know when you’ve finished having your temper tantrum, all right?” 

Dean’s turning away, still shaking his head, and that does it for Sam. His hands are moving blind, grasping until his fingers catch fabric, pulling backwards until he hears the thick sound of Dean’s back slamming into the door of his car. Sam turns to accommodate it, his other hand coming down on the roof, half for leverage, half so he can bracket Dean’s body in. He just wants to keep his brother standing still for _one_ second, one goddamn second, wants to make him listen, wants to make him _stop_.

Except something got mixed up in Sam’s drunken brain, because he wasn’t planning to be leaning in this close. Didn’t think he’d be looking down into Dean’s shocked face with less than a foot of air between them. Hadn’t calculated for where Dean’s hands would go, which is apparently tangled in the front of Sam’s shirt.

A sharp huff leaves Sam’s lips, his eyes wide and brow furrowed as he tries to process all of this. The way Dean’s heat is rolling off of him and into Sam, how his fists feel resting against Sam’s chest, how their thighs are grazing each other as they both try and adjust their stances to be more steady. 

_Close_ , Sam thinks dumbly. _He’s really close_. 

“What—” Dean says, then cuts himself off, mouth snapping shut. He looks so small, now that Sam is half hunched over him, his height and the position of his arms curling him forward so they’re breathing each other’s air. 

“I’m—” Sam blinks, jerking his head back an inch. Dean’s eyes are so green. His head is spinning, dizzy with the smell of his brother and the wispy remnants of the bar and the liquor floating off of Dean’s collar. “I don’t—”

“Sam,” Dean says.

It sounds like a penny dropping in a quiet room.

All Sam can do is breathe and look at his brother.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says again, with meaning. It just makes Sam’s gaze move from Dean’s eyes down to his mouth. It’s parted, painted a slick pink even in the dusk of the streetlamp a few yards away. And Sam can’t stop staring.

“S—”

Sam lets go, his hands flying free of Dean’s shoulder and the car so he can step back. His palms are burning and his heartbeat is a frantic tempo in his throat, pumping through him so fast that his head begins to ache. 

Dean doesn’t speak. Sam doesn’t speak. 

They both just stand there, small puffs of white floating out of their mouths as the night continues to cool. Sam just continues to burn.

Then, a laugh. Loud and drunken, startling Sam into taking another step backwards. 

“I get it.” Dean laughs again, a hand pressed to his chest as he braces his other against his knee. “All right, Sammy, I get it.”

Sam doesn’t get it. Sam doesn’t get it at all.

“You were tryin’ to‒” Dean waves between both of them wordlessly before continuing. “Because I‒” He laughs again, and Sam is still completely lost. “Okay, Sammy. I get it.” Sam blinks at him. Dean stands back to his full height and leans backwards, hands on his hips, to crack his spine before stepping forward to sling an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s hit the hay and call it a day, huh?”

Sam’s heartbeat is still a step too fast and there are leftover trembles that are shaking his hands, but somehow Dean is okay. Dean isn’t thinking anything of that… _thing_ , and they’re okay. So Sam takes it.

“That rhymed,” Sam says a little dumbly.

“That it did, little brother. Told you I was a genius.”

“No one said _that_.” 

Dean laughs again, right from his chest, and Sam aches like a three day bruise. Everything is fuzzy around the edges and he can feel a wall of unshed tears pressing at the backs of his eyes and his head is a fucking mess, but Sam is walking with his brother to their motel and Dean’s arm is around his shoulders and it feels like home.

Sam takes it.

-

They don’t talk about it.

Because if they don’t talk about it, then that means it never happened. Right? That’s how these things work?

Sam’s counting on that being the case. And it seems to be working, because Dean finally cut it out. Hasn’t brought up another guy since the parking lot incident a week and a half ago. They got distracted by a salt and burn in small town Missouri that ended up needing two different sets of bones to be burned; something they learned _after_ thinking they’d finished the job the first time, only to be launched head-first into the nearest grave markers by the now seriously-pissed-off spirit of one Mrs. Hanson. 

Turns out, some dumb high schoolers had thought it’d be fun to make their own little ritual and dug up Hanson’s left rib a few nights before. It was a shitstorm trying to figure out which kids were stupid enough to dabble in rituals, let alone grave-robbing, and by the time the burn was finished and the week was over, Sam was exhausted. 

Dean seemed to share the sentiment, if the way he just threw himself face-first on the comforter of his bed was anything to go by. 

“Fuhhg _hids_!” Dean shouts, his voice muffled by blanket.

“English,” Sam reminds his brother as he sits heavily on his own mattress before struggling to work his boot off. 

His entire body aches, begging him to finally let it rest. Not like it’ll do any good nowadays. Sam’s apparently become an insomniac now, unable to drift off, even after a hunt as tiring as this one. Staring at the ceiling in the dark has become his favorite past time of late, not that he’s proud of it, but what else is he supposed to do? Something nameless has infested his mind, slipping into its crevices that only slither out during the night to send his thoughts racing on a stream of consciousness too jumbled for even him to decipher. It makes it impossible to sleep.

“Fucking _kids_ ,” Dean repeats after lifting his head up to glare at Sam, his eyes hooded. “Why do they always think shit like this is a good idea, huh? What is it about tossing around a dead hag’s bones in a pentagram painted with red nail polish that sounds enticing?”

Sam shrugs as he lifts his other foot onto his knee, grimacing as he pulls that boot off too. Dean lets out a deep sigh and forces himself off his bed. His own boots hit the floor in two solid thumps before he starts stripping, tossing his jacket and shirt on the end of his bed as he walks to the bathroom. 

Of course, an invisible force chooses right then to drag Sam’s eyes up from where he was about to dig around in his duffel for a change of clothes and over to where Dean is standing in front of the bathroom mirror with his back to Sam. 

Time sizzles to a halt, locking Sam’s entire body into place as his eyes make their own path up the curve of Dean’s spine to the length of his shoulders where the muscles are knotted and strong. There are bruises on his side, a spattering of purple and blue that’ll edge into yellow in the coming hours, but it doesn’t look like a blemish. It accents the lines of his ribcage, somehow, drawing the eye to the tight curve that leads down to the stomach Sam knows is toned and smattered with scars. 

His own skin is beginning to tighten around his bones, crushing him in on himself the longer he stares. Still, Sam can’t look away. Dean’s bending forward now, and the muffled sound of the tap running reaches Sam’s ears, a useless addition to the scene compared to the way the yellow light in the bathroom has caught on the angles of Dean’s shoulder blades pushing against his skin, like wings about to burst free from their cage. 

That mental image, more than the fact that Dean is about to turn around and catch Sam in the act, is what breaks Sam out of his trance. He ducks his head quickly, his breath leaving his chest in short and sharp bursts as he stares at the dull carpet beneath his feet and tries to collect his thoughts again. The feeling is back, the one that feels red and dark, like a yawning mouth that’s slowly been swallowing all of his insides, and he just wishes he could _understand_. 

“I’m beat.” Sam looks up again to see Dean wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, propped up against the doorframe. “You want the shower?” 

“Sure,” Sam croaks, averting his eyes to pull fresh boxers and a somewhat-clean t-shirt out of his bag. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Dean’s unusually silent, enough so that it prompts Sam to lift his gaze back up to his brother once more. Dean’s staring at him with his eyebrows furrowed, his left hand absentmindedly rubbing against the thigh of his jeans. It’s taking every inch of willpower Sam has to not drop his eyes down to re-memorize Dean’s chest and throat, the tantalizing expanse of skin mocking him now. 

Sucking in a careful breath through his nose, Sam blinks a couple of times, hoping he looks oblivious. “What?” 

Dean stares at Sam more. Something itches at the base of Sam’s spine and he thinks that maybe that thundering he’s hearing isn’t an oncoming storm, but is actually his heartbeat, his blood pounding in his ears. It’s likely. It’s very likely.

Forcing out a half-hearted scoff, Sam pushes to his feet and walks over to Dean. Raising his eyebrows, Sam tries for a casual shrug as he slips past his brother to get inside the bathroom. He’s definitely not thinking of the way their chests just brushed against each other, or the sound of Dean inhaling a breath. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“That’s my line,” Dean replies, but the usual sarcastic tone that accompanies his words isn’t there, so it falls flat. In any case, the weight of Dean’s eyes on Sam has reached an unbearable level, so he takes it upon himself to slowly shut the door on Dean, who begins protesting quite loudly until he finally moves away from the doorjamb to avoid getting squashed. 

Only after Dean is out of sight and Sam is finally alone can he begin to breathe. 

Not for the first time, Sam wonders if this is normal. He tries not to listen to the tiny voice in the back of his head whispering that it’s not.

-

Dean keeps looking at him all throughout Nebraska, both Dakotas, and straight into Montana.

It leaves Sam twitchy, like live wires have been fed under his skin and someone forgot to take them back out. There’s something in the _way _Dean’s looking at him that’s setting Sam’s teeth on edge. Because Dean’s eyes have been on Sam his entire life; it isn’t that kind of look anymore.__

__It isn’t calculating what percent chance some random thing will appear that could endanger Sam’s life, or trying to gauge Sam’s happiness or bitchiness or whatever it is Dean always manages to find etched in the tilt of Sam’s mouth. Whatever Dean’s looking for, he’s hiding it behind a wall of stoic lines and blank irises. The only thing hinting at Dean’s sudden shift is the way his eyebrows always pull in when Sam catches him staring._ _

__It’s driving Sam insane._ _

__Maybe, Sam thinks one afternoon after Dean pulls them into the parking lot of a local barbecue joint boasting the best ribs in the Midwest, maybe he’s just trying to make sure you’re okay. But that couldn’t be it, because—for the most part—everything’s been normal. They’ve found cases here and there along their wayward drifting, worked together perfectly in sync as always in wrapping them up, and things have been fine. Haven’t they?_ _

__Sam swallows and turns his head, squinting to see through the big glass windows of the restaurant. Dean’s inside now, waiting for their order while fiddling with his phone with an intense look of concentration on his face. Sam furrows his brows as he leans over a bit more in his seat, as if somehow that will help him read his brother’s mind and figure out just what the fuck’s been going on lately. Dean chooses that precise moment to glance up at the car. Sam freezes as their eyes meet, his breath going short, and he can do nothing but stare at his brother, who is watching him right back._ _

__The moment snaps when the waitress leans over the counter and places two bags in front of Dean, a bright smile on her face as she says something that Sam doesn’t catch. Dean seems startled, jumping before turning to grin at her and take the bags with a little jerk of his chin for thanks. Quickly, Sam settles back into his seat and trains his eyes straight ahead through the windshield, focusing on a van that just pulled in and is currently spewing out a family of six. The kids are all stumbling over each other, their excited screeches reaching Sam’s ears, even from in the Impala._ _

__He’s still watching them when the driver’s door creaks open and Dean throws himself in the front seat. The smell of barbecue sauce and fries and perfectly braised meat hits Sam’s nose, drawing his gaze over to the two bags in Dean’s lap despite him telling himself not to. The car is silent for one beat, then two, then Dean’s arm is reaching over to drop one of the grease-lined paper bag into Sam’s lap._ _

__“Honey barbecue, just like you asked, princess.” Dean’s voice is lilting, edged with that goading humor that usually sets Sam off._ _

__Swallowing delicately, Sam gets both hands on the bag, feels the crinkle of the brown paper against his palms, between his fingers. Grips it tight and hears it crumple. Tries to remember what it feels like when his world isn’t spinning. “Thanks.”_ _

__“Can’t believe I have a brother who doesn’t get hot sauce on his ribs,” Dean says under his breath, shaking his head in disdain as he pries his own bag open and starts rooting around in it. “And you call yourself a _Winchester_.”_ _

__Sam has the reply sitting on the tip of his tongue, ready and waiting to launch another round of banter that will hopefully stave off the looks Dean’s been throwing his way as of late, but something stops him from letting it fall past his lips. Instead, he turns to look out his window to watch the cars on the road go by in blurs. What was once a hollow, hungry pit in his stomach has been replaced with a numbness that is spreading out to each of his limbs, turning him to stone._ _

__The crinkling from Dean’s movements suddenly stops. Sam knows he’s looking again. That sickly sweet thrill spins down Sam’s veins, telling him to ignore it, that maybe it’ll pass and they can both keep pretending like they haven’t been dancing around this for weeks now._ _

__Apparently, Sam’s brain didn’t get the memo, because his head is turning and his eyes are finding his brother’s before he can even blink. The sun breaches the thick cloud it was resting behind at that same moment, pushing its rays through the windshield to catch on the expanse of Dean’s throat, the sharp angle of his chin, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. Half his face coated in gold, piercing his irises until they look clear, until they are two rings of seaglass that Sam wishes he had stumbled upon in the sand. He can’t breathe past the wall in his lungs, the one that always rises when Dean smiles at him, touches him, _exists_ next to him, and suddenly, it all makes sense._ _

__This deep, dark thing, the blackish-red monster brewing in Sam’s chest for what feels like years, for what feels like his entire _life_ , it makes sense. Sam knows what it is now. Knows it, and is immediately terrified of it. He would climb out of the car and run into the road and beg a car to hit him if he could move any of his muscles right now. But they’ve encrusted themselves around his bones, forced him to sit in it, in this feeling he now knows is love. The most tainted kind of love there is, possessive and hungry and life-ending as Sam knows it. The kind that will ruin him. Ruin them. Ruin everything._ _

__“You finally figure it out?”_ _

__Whatever air was left in Sam’s lungs is gone, escaping his parted lips in a shuddering gasp as Dean’s words hit him in full force._ _

__“What?” He doesn’t even know how he managed to say the word._ _

__Dean just smiles. The bastard just quirks up the corners of his mouth and sits back in his seat before turning the key in the engine, the car roaring to life beneath their feet. Whistling softly under his breath, Dean leans forward and pushes in a new music tape with the knuckle of his right forefinger before putting the Impala in gear and turning them out of the parking lot._ _

__They don’t speak until they both cross the threshold of their latest motel room. Dean’s too relaxed for this, his walk practically a saunter as he carries himself to the small table under the window to drop off his keys and the bag of food before shouldering off his jacket. That infuriating smile is still on his face, all-knowing, and Sam’s skin feels like it is about to crawl right off of his body. He hasn’t been able to speak for the past twenty minutes, was barely able to get to his feet once Dean put the car in park a minute ago, but the need to know just what the fuck Dean was talking about drove him forward._ _

__“What the fuck are you talking about?” So apparently Sam _can_ speak now. He’s standing just in front of the door and is staring at his brother, waiting. _ _

__Dean stops his bustling and turns to Sam, his face crafted into carefully neutral as his eyes light on Sam’s terrified gaze. There’s an uncountable amount of heartbeats of heavy silence, weighted like low-lying clouds on the horizon, and just as ominous. Sam finds himself trembling, the adrenaline accompanying the fear in his heart zipping through him at light speed, readying him to run right back out that door before he can hear his brother disown him, if that’s what this will come down to._ _

__“Because you couldn’t have known,” Sam says, and suddenly he can’t stop. “You can’t have known, because you’re thick. You’re as dense as fucking stone, Dean, you _couldn’t have known_ , so how can you say—”_ _

__“Known you my entire life, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is quiet. It’s a petal on skin, gentle and reassuring and a secret that Sam has always held close to his heart. “‘Course I knew.”_ _

__And that’s what slaps Sam in the face, literally knocks his head back with the force of the realization. Beyond all reasoning, they aren’t talking about the same thing._ _

__A hysterical laugh bubbles up Sam’s throat, choking him before it finally bursts free, surprising them both. Sam drops the bag of food and wraps an arm around his stomach, his other hand on his knee as he leans forward and laughs until he’s red in the face, until tears are in the corners of his eyes and he thinks he might pass out._ _

__Sam can feel Dean’s hand on his back, slapping between his shoulder-blades, and Sam blearily finds himself wondering if each hit could loosen the sickness that’s rooted deep inside him. “Sammy, what the hell? Did you knock a screw loose in there?”_ _

__Taking deep, shaky breaths, Sam pushes himself up and away from Dean until he’s just out of reach. “No, Dean,” Sam wheezes. He presses a palm against his face so he can gather himself before letting it fall back by his side. “No, it’s just ironic.” He laughs weakly and closes his eyes. He’s suddenly so tired. So, so fucking tired, the backs of his eyelids feeling so dry that they scratch his corneas._ _

__“Jesus, Sam, cut the deep shit. Whaddya mean ‘ironic’?” Sam can hear the air quotes in Dean’s words._ _

__Sam opens his eyes and looks at his brother. Dean’s pissed. His hands are clenched and white-knuckled, his nostrils flared now that he isn’t the one speaking in riddles. “You think I’m gay,” Sam says. “You thought you had me figured out and it was about the wrong thing.”_ _

__Dean blinks, and then blinks again. He opens his mouth to speak, then screws his lips up, completely lost._ _

__“It’s ironic,” Now Sam can’t stop. He sees the trainwreck before it happens, is watching it in slow motion as his tongue continues to let bombs drop in the air in front of him, and he can’t stop. “Because I’m in love with you and you made a joke about it weeks ago. It’s ironic because I finally figured out you were right while we were sitting in a parking lot and I was holding a bag of barbecue fucking ribs.”_ _

__And there it is. Out on the table for all to see._ _

Dean’s mouth drops open with a soft noise and the urge to start laughing again shivers up Sam’s throat, but he swallows against it. He can’t laugh when he just changed both of their lives in a single second. 

Dean doesn't move. He stands there and he stares at Sam like he's an alien, like he's someone Dean has never seen before. Something like a rubber band snaps inside of Sam's chest, breaking him out of the trance his own words put him into, and suddenly he's stepping forward, drawing himself closer to his shell-shocked brother despite every nerve in his body raging for him to run away. 

It's like someone else is controlling his body, raising his hands until his fingers are following the edges of Dean's jaw, moving back to curl around Dean's ears and tilt his face up. The next three seconds are so fluid that they slip by like raindrops on a window pane, melding into one breathtaking moment where Sam finally leans down and presses his mouth against Dean's. 

There's no noise of surprise from Dean. No pulling away. Just the warm, dry imprint of Dean's lips against Sam's, soft and full and chaste. The prickle of the strands of Dean's hair against Sam's palm is somehow calming, encourages his grip to tighten minutely, to find a different angle for both of them, and then the kiss is unmistakeable. The perfect slotting of lips, the exhale of breath from their noses at the same time as it just feels _right_ , and the subsequent push into one another. 

Dean's hands are in the front of Sam's shirt, pulling him in hard, crushing their chests together. Sam is shaking, can feel it when he separates their mouths for a second to breathe, and it doubles in force then moment Dean cranes his neck up to kiss him again. Willing, _wanting_ , craving it with a fervor Sam could have never imagined. They're crowded in each other's space, feet shuffling to hold their balance, and the second Dean's tongue slips forward to flick against Sam's top lip, he explodes.

With a sharp gasp, Sam jerks away, just far enough that the air between them can't be breached by one mouth seeking the other. They both are panting, the bubble encasing them growing humid with each harsh exhale, and Sam hasn't stopped trembling. Another breath washes out from Dean's mouth and ghosts against the wet spot on Sam's upper lip, right below the curve of his cupid's bow, and the feeling of it, the reminder of it, makes a soft noise leave his throat.

Dean's the first to speak.

"You—"

"No," Sam croaks out, stopping Dean in his tracks. "No, you don't get to—What the fuck, Dean?"

Dean's eyes widen before narrowing in disbelief. "...You're asking me 'what the fuck' after _you_ kissed _me_?" Flushing, Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off this time, his voice sharp as flint. "Are you screwing with me right now?"

Sam tenses, his fingers tightening in Dean's hair without a second thought. "Screwing with you? Why would I be—"

"Because I would have let it go," Dean rushes on, his eyes bright and wild now, each word rushing out faster than the one before it. "I was _trying_ to let it go, but there was always that-that _thought_ in the back of my head, that maybe, maybe you'd—" With a strangled noise, Dean stops speaking. His cheeks are splotchy red and his throat is working like he's fighting tears.

Blood rushes to Sam's ears, making ocean waves crash over his hearing as he tries to process this, to sort through everything Dean's just thrown at him. With a voice far steadier than he thought he could muster, Sam asks, "That maybe I'd what, Dean?"

Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose. Sam can feel his fists pressed against his chest, solid and warm. Grounding him. Dean has always grounded him.

"I'm not screwing with you," Sam whispers, sliding his thumbs forward so they can trace up the warm spots on Dean's cheeks. "Dean, this is the only thing I'm certain of right now. Out of everything, it's you. It's always been you."

"You don't have to lie—" Dean starts, but quickly falls silent when Sam shakes him, hard.

"I wouldn't lie about this," Sam pushes. His head is spinning, trying to reconcile everything that Dean is implying, that maybe he isn't alone in this, has never been alone in this. Christ, he can't stop trembling. "I'd never lie about this."

Dean's grip tightens further, drawing Sam forward until they're breathing each other's air once more. "Then shut up and kiss me again."

When they crash together for the second time, with desperate fingers and lungs begging for air, there's no doubt lingering in the back of Sam's mind anymore. There isn't any room for it in the way Dean is fighting for more with his entire body, in the lean forward and the spit-slick sweep of tongue into Sam's mouth. 

And with what little functioning his brain can muster while Sam is struggling to give as good as he's getting in this hurricane of a kiss, he realizes that of course it would end up this way. They've never been normal, never had the pleasure of taking life's road at cruising speed. Everything about them is as jagged as a heartbeat on a monitor. Normal wasn't born in their blood. So of course, they took the long way here. They took years of this building like a storm, like the one Sam always found chasing Dean's skin, all to culminate in one torrential moment, sweeping them both off their feet.

Sam has never felt more at home.


End file.
